


5 times Crowley wakes up and Aziraphale is RIGHT THERE...

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: + 1 time he's not.I've never done any 5 plus 1 so I thought I'd give it a shot. the +1 bit got long but I thought it was ok.Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale doesn't. Crowley sleeps everywhere, because it's an awesome hobby. Aziraphale disagrees.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	5 times Crowley wakes up and Aziraphale is RIGHT THERE...

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT NOTES: panic attack, sort of? I gave Aziraphale some of my autism. As a gift.

1

Crowley wakes slow, groggy, warm. He likes this part of sleeping. He’s heard humans complain about having to wake up but this is nice. He never has anywhere pressing to go or do, it’s good to just lie here and-

“Yaargh!” Crowley yells, trying to go from lying curled and relaxed to upright and running in a millisecond, getting tangled in his blanket, going crashing into the dresser and, finally the floor. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says cheerfully, from where he’s lying fully dressed including shoes, on his back, hands neatly knit over his stomach. 

“Fuck!” Crowley shouts, sitting up so he can do it in Aziraphale’s general direction. “What the ever loving  _ fuck _ , angel?! Do you have any idea how creepy it is to go to sleep alone and wake up to you lying there like some sort of stone knight on a tomb?”

“You like spooky,” Aziraphale says. “I got bored, you were sleeping.”

“I said creepy, not spooky. And you never get bored! You’re one of those awful people and people-shaped-beings who say you only get bored if you’re boring!” 

“Mm,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“How long have you been there, anyway?” Crowley asks, picking himself up off the floor. 

“About a day,” Aziraphale says, sighing, turning onto his side to gaze at Crowley. 

“A  _ day?! _ Bloody hell,” Crowley says. “Fine. Let’s go get breakfast or something.”

Aziraphale beams at him, sitting up and shuffling off the bed standing up right in Crowley’s space and kissing his nose, heading off humming, all cheerful and fluffy. Crowley watches him. 

“Come on, dear! And it’s dinner, it’s seven pm,” Aziraphale calls back. 

Crowley trails after him and gets halfway to the restaurant Aziraphale’s chosen before realising he’s still in silk pyjamas and bedroom slippers he doesn’t remember owning.

* * *

2

Crowley wakes slow. It’s warm, dark. He can hear someone breathing beside him, he keeps his eyes shut and takes careful stock. He sighs and opens his eyes and scowls at Aziraphale. He’s curled up on his side, hands tucked between his chest and Crowley’s shoulder, eyes closed. 

“I thought you don’t sleep,” Crowley whispers. It’s night, the small light there is is pale, moon-ish. Aziraphale’s hair looks silver. 

“I’m not asleep,” Aziraphale breathes, words slow and clumsy. 

“What’re you doing?” Crowley whispers. He doesn’t quite dare to move. 

“Resting. I’m tired,” Aziraphale says. 

“Oh,” Crowley says. 

That seems fair enough. He gets more comfortable and closes his eyes, he can sleep until morning. It’s strange, though, having another body that close. He can feel Aziraphale’s breath, can feel his knees where they’re pushed against Crowley’s hip. When he turns his head, he can just make out the shift of Aziraphale’s chest and stomach with each inhale, exhale. It’s warmer, with Aziraphale there. Safer. Crowley watches the shape of him, eyes heavy, drowsy. He doesn’t really notice when his eyes fall all the way shut. He can still hear Aziraphale. 

“Why’re you here?” he asks, voice quiet in deference to the night. 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Crowley thinks maybe he’s asleep, but when he looks to check, Aziraphale’s eyes are open, oddly bright in the moonshine. Crowley closes his eyes quickly so Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s looking. Aziraphale gives a short laugh, just a puff of air, shifting so he can press his lips, his cheek, his forehead to Crowley’s shoulder, holding Crowley’s arm. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley relaxes. It’s sort of an answer. It feels good and warm to have Aziraphale there. 

* * *

3

Crowley wakes up, uncertain when he fell asleep. He remembers a lot of wine, Aziraphale’s books, Aziraphale. He’s on the couch in the back of the shop, when he opens his eyes and twists a bit he can see Aziraphale, sat at the desk, bent over the desk. It’s day, light streaming in. Aziraphale’s all lit up, golden and fuzzy and soft-looking. Crowley tucks his hand under his cheek to watch. 

“I know you’re awake, dear,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t stare, it’s rude.”

“I’m not. I’m gazing. ‘s’religious,” Crowley says. “Being a good demon - practising false idolatry.”

Aziraphale tuts, but the back of his neck is pink with a blush. Crowley smiles, closing his eyes to memorise it. When he opens his eyes Aziraphale’s  _ right there _ . Crowley yelps, jerking against the back of the couch, startled. He didn’t hear Aziraphale moving. 

“Move over, then,” Aziraphale says. 

“Move over? Move over  _ where _ ? What do you  _ mean  _ ‘move over’?” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale pushes him with a knee, shoving onto the small couch, wriggling and getting his elbows and knees and head in all the softer bits of Crowley, ignoring Crowley’s complaints. Eventually he stills, plastered against Crowley, half on top of him. Crowley wraps his arms around him, grumbling, and bites his shoulder. 

“How are you so pointy?” Crowley asks, Aziraphale’s knee getting him again. “Lie still!”

“I’m not pointy. You’re the pointy one,” Aziraphale says, muffled by Crowley’s chest. “You’re warm. I was a little cold over there.”

“You could have just…” Crowley wiggles his fingers against Aziraphale’s back, sending tendrils of warmth to wrap around them both. 

“That’s wonderful,” Aziraphale breathes, going all limp and relaxed. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“Hmh,” Crowley says, huffing. He makes sure Aziraphale’s warm all over, gets them as comfy as possible on this ridiculous couch. 

Funny, he doesn’t think until hours and hours after they’ve got up, he could’ve just made the couch bigger. Well, they fit fine, if they’re tight and close, and it’s warmer that way. 

* * *

4

Crowley wakes up fast, sharply, something disturbing him. He sits up straight and startles, Aziraphale’s stood right there by the bed, still, staring. It takes him a moment to identify the high whining sound as what woke him, and then another moment to connect the sounds to Aziraphale, stood still as a rock. It’s evening, still light enough to see him clearly - his wide eyes, slightly sweaty skin. The whining is coming from him, along with a moan and gasps and cut off odd sounds. 

“Uh, hi,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale’s hands wave and then settle. He’s got a phone, Crowley realises when a garbled, robotic sound comes out. Aziraphale gulps for breath. Crowley waits. 

“I seem to be panicking, my dear,” comes the robotic voice, phone held up high enough for Aziraphale to see it this time. 

“Er, ok,” Crowley says. “Do I… hug you?”

Aziraphale makes a very distressed kind of noise and scuttles back, fast, hitting the wall hard and sliding down, curling up, head pressed to his knees. 

“Apparently not,” the robotic voice says, slightly muffled from within the tight knot Aziraphale’s made himself.

“Yeah, apparently. ‘s’why I asked, you don’t always like touch, I’ll always ask,” Crowley says, watching carefully. Aziraphale relaxes a bit. He’s still making noises. “Um, I’m not gonna find it weird, whatever comes out. Is that… helpful? Don’t care if you’re odd.”

“I’m not odd,” says the phone. 

It must help, though, because the choked and cut off sounds stop. Instead is the whining and moaning, noisier, and Aziraphale yanks his head back against the wall with a thud, throws his whole body like that, thud. Crowley watches, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Can I help?” he asks. “Give me instructions.”

“Fish, fish! Fish!” Aziraphale shouts. “Hm, fish, I didn’t do it! Shh, no! Quiet!”

“You can be loud,” Crowley says. “Well, if I can’t help…” Crowley stretches out on his back on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head, and looks up at the ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars up there. “Hey, did you put these up? Stars?”

“I looked up the constellations at the library,” says the phone. 

It’s slightly odd. Aziraphale noisy and shouting about fish and things, and having a reasonable conversation with a phone. Not terrible, though, especially as the noises get less distressed. Less yelling, more singing and humming. Still on about fish. Crowley yawns, he’s still sleepy. His eyes drift shut. Aziraphale’s phone’s gone quiet, and he’s singing some classical thing, pom-di-pom-pom. There’s a few long moments of quiet, and Crowley almost dozes. The bed sinks. He stays very still as Aziraphale arranges himself, curled against Crowley’s chest, head resting in the crook of his arm as Crowley carefully lifts his hand to hold Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Okay?” he whispers. Aziraphale nods. “Okay.”

Aziraphale mumbles about fish for a while, between quiet singing and humming. Crowley listens, heart thrumming. Aziraphale's warm. Crowley dozes. 

* * *

  
  


5

“Now this is just ridiculous.”

Crowley doesn’t open his eyes. It’s  _ sunny _ and he’s  _ warm _ and he  _ is asleep _ . He lies still, trying to get back to the nice dozy place he was in before he was interrupted. It’s no good, though. There’s no more verbal interruptions but there  _ is  _ an angel standing over him disapproving at him. It’s making him tense. 

“What,” he asks, between his teeth.

“You are lying on a wall!”

“And?”

“It’s night-time.”

Hardly. It’s still sunny, and it’s a comfy wall. Neither of those points are worth anything. Crowley wriggles to get more comfortable. There is  _ still  _ an angel right right there, however, there is no escape. Crowley growls and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the wall, and glares at Aziraphale. He’s not, in fact, stood over Crowley, he’s sat on the wall where Crowley’s head was, knees pressed firmly together, hands knitted and resting on his thighs. He’s giving Crowley a very unimpressed look. 

“How’d you even find me?” Crowley grumbles. 

Aziraphale shrugs, looking away. There’s something wistful about him, and he’s right - the sun’s going, it’s cooler now that Crowley’s not pressed to hot stone. The light is cooler, too, where it touches Aziraphale, it catches him still, unmoving. Crowley gets up and stretches ostentatiously, saunters the few feet so he can lean right into Aziraphale’s space, press his face close. 

“You smell different,” he says, for something to say. It’s not true, Aziraphale always smells the same, even when he changes cologne. It makes Aziraphale frown and wriggle and try to sniff himself, though, which breaks the stillness. Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s body, welcome there, resting his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“I am not a, a, a, to drape yourself over like, like, like, come now,” Aziraphale sputters, flustered, bustling to his feet. “You didn’t come over. You were meant to visit.”

“Was I? How rude,” Crowley says, offering his arm. 

“Crowley!”

“What? The wall was comfy, I fell asleep. Hardly a crime,” Crowley says. 

“Last time you ‘fell asleep’ on the off-chance, you didn’t wake up for nearly a century, and I had to do all your work as well as my own,” Aziraphale says. He’s frowning again, a thread of anxiety working its way through him.

“Not doing that, just napping in parks,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale’s arm seeing as Aziraphale isn’t taking his, setting them walking at a gentle pace, keeping close. “C’mon, I’ll take you to dinner,” Crowley says. Aziraphale gives a huffy, put upon sigh. “What? You like dinner.”

“Crowley, it’s eleven pm,” Aziraphale says. 

“What?!” Crowley yanks them to a stop and looks around for a clock, not believing it for a second. It was barely morning when he found the wall. He eventually remembers his phone and pulls it out, and sure enough it says 22:49. He wants to say ‘bloody hell’ but stops it through long practise; all that comes out is a strangled kind of noise. 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says, losing all his anxiety and irritation in preference of smugness. 

“I bet there’s somewhere open,” Crowley says, regaining equilibrium. “Somewhere that’ll serve waffles. And ice cream.”

Aziraphale brightens still further and takes Crowley’s arm, steering them to a different street exit, walking with purpose now and telling Crowley excitedly about some time in some long forgotten century in some corner of Italy making ice cream. It segues into a story about pigeons, somehow, and then a recitation of a much-watched play, by which point Crowley is bored, charmed, lost, and utterly delighted to be all three. And they’ve walked past the waffle place and have to go back. 

* * *

+1

Crowley wakes up. He’s at home (his flat now can be called a home, Aziraphale’s filled it with books and nicknacks covered in wings and bought way too many draught-excluders shaped like snakes), there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He does a quick inventory, but no, there’s no odd sounds, no angel stood over him glowering or panicking, no out of place noises. Nothing that might wake him. He gets up, remembers it’s dark and considers putting on a light for show, decides not to. Just in case he missed a burglar or something. He checks his plants first, but they’re fine. He gives them a quick spritz and telling off, just in case they might help the burglar, and checks the rest of the flat. Definitely no intruder, but he’s firmly awake now. 

Pointedly awake. 

There’s only really one person who wakes him, and he isn’t really a person at all. Crowley shuts his eyes and thinks really hard about Aziraphale, checking if anyone’s watching, if anyone’s close, and sighs. Of course. Where else would an angel be in the middle of the night? Crowley heads out of his flat and up to the fire escape, up the spindly stairs and clambers over the edge onto the flat roof. Aziraphale’s sat on the far edge, legs dangling into the night, wings trailing behind, leaning sideways against a slightly higher bit of ledge. All out of sorts, as always, feathers a mess. Crowley goes over, intending to say something. 

He’s not, however, expecting to find Aziraphale fast a-bloody-sleep. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers, creeping closer. 

No, nope, definitely, 100% asleep. Thing about Aziraphale sleeping, Crowley’s seen him do it a handful of times over the years, mostly when he’s been unwell or after Heaven sent particularly firm memos, the thing is, Aziraphale sleeps with his eyes open. It’s really creepy, and not the good sort. Crowley considers things, then just scoops the stupid angel up into his arms, wings and all. He’s much heavier than Crowley expects and he stumbles, narrowly missing pitching them both off the edge. He reconsiders. 

Then he remembers himself and just miracles them back into the flat. Aziraphale doesn’t wake, just snuggles against Crowley’s shoulder, wraps an arm around him, and starts to snore. Crowley blesses, carting his stupid angel to the bed and crawling in too, curling around him, wings very awkward to sleep with, feathers everywhere. Whatever, he can’t be dealing with this tonight. He closes his eyes, focuses on Aziraphale being warm and close, and falls asleep. 

“You stole me!” 

And wakes up. Judging by the much brighter light and the smell of coffee that always wafts up from a downstairs flat, it’s morning. Crowley yawns, notices Aziraphale standing stark-naked, arms crossed over his chest, glaring. 

“You definitely weren’t naked last night,” Crowley says. 

“I showered. I only remembered right now that I wasn’t here when I went to sleep! You stole me!” 

“I thought you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t! But I woke up, so I must have. You have a really nice shower, I like the new pressure,” Aziraphale says. “You should get better towels, though, yours are too soft.”

“ _ Too  _ soft? No such thing.”

“They don’t dry you, they just… smother you in softness.”

“I like them.”

“Why am I here?” Aziraphale asks, quieter and more uncertain, fingers digging unhappily into his arms. 

“I dunno,” Crowley says, getting up and going over. He stops just short of Aziraphale, but Aziraphale tips forward and presses close, head against Crowley’s shoulder. His wings are still out and in the way. “You woke me up, found you on the roof.”

“The roof? Why?”

“No idea, you were perched up there like a gargoyle, doing your spooky eyes-wide-shut thing and snoring. Lucky it wasn’t raining, really.”

“You like spooky,” Aziraphale mumbles. 

“Yep. You feeling alright? You nap when you’re sick.”

“I’m fine. I was tired.”

“Oh. Ok. So you decided, why not nap on Crowley’s roof and freak him out? What a nice midnight treat! What if you fell off!” Crowley is outraged and worried and annoyed, but he’s also got Aziraphale in his arms and it’s distractingly nice and soothing. He grabs a blanket off the bed and wraps it around Aziraphale’s naked shoulders, making sure to be irritable about it. Aziraphale makes a sad little noise and snuggles apologetically closer. “And now you’re cold.”

“I wasn’t going to fall. And anyway, I have wings. I can fly,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not cold.”

“Ok, ok,” Crowley says, giving in. “Let’s just… rest. For a bit. So you don’t fall asleep on the fucking roof again! Why didn’t you just come  _ inside _ ?! I have a nice comfy bed. Bloody gargoyle.”

Crowley expects Aziraphale to correct him on that; whenever Crowley talks about the gargoyles Aziraphale explains that it’s only a gargoyle if it functions as a water-spout, otherwise it’s a grotesque. Crowley’s got it wrong twice now. No correction comes, though, Aziraphale just clutches onto Crowley, arms uncomfortably tight.

“I don’t have to go home?” he whispers. Crowley can’t really work out what’s going on, so he goes for a soothing click of his tongue, which Aziraphale echoes back softly. Crowley’s lips twitch and he hums, which Aziraphale also echoes. Stupidly cute. Crowley answers the question to distract himself. 

“No. Or, sometimes, but I’ll come with you,” he says, gallantly. 

“I miss you when you sleep for too long,” Aziraphale says.

“You always bloody wake me up, these days,” Crowley says. And then, as it dawns on him, and he can’t believe he missed this! “ohh, ohhh. Riight. Sorry, I’m stupid! Didn’t think of it before, definitely should’ve, bit thick!”

“You are not, you’re very smart,” Aziraphale says. Finally his wings flutter and close, vanishing from this plane of existence.

“Don’t sidetrack me, I’ve got it now. Aziraphale, angel, I’m not leaving you alone, I promise, I promise. I won’t,” Crowley says, holding onto him fiercely tight, glaring at the world. No bloody chance. “I’ve got you.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” Aziraphale says, and his voice has a tremble in it that Crowley hates.

“For me either,” Crowley says. “So, yeah.”

“Pretended for ages there was…” Aziraphale trails off. He sounds so very tired. 

“I know,” Crowley says. It comes out a bit grim, because he does know. 

He’s watched Aziraphale fight this fight for centuries, trying so hard to reconcile goodness with Heaven, trying to make sense of things that just don’t make any sense. Trying to accept what is unacceptable to him as ‘ineffable’, trying to trust that She knows better, knows what’s right, knows what’s good. He’s seen Aziraphale tear himself up over it. Trying so hard to be good without losing his sanity and self. A self that no matter how hard he tried, the other angels never seemed to like. Always hiding that they didn’t like him right, afraid that it was something wrong in him. A self that, to Crowley, is so awesome. 

“Never met anyone like you,” Crowley says. “Angel, demon, or human. You’re funny, and you surprise me all the time. Also weird, wonderful, curious.”

“And a bastard,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t sound too happy about that one. Might just be annoyed at being called ‘weird’, though, he never likes that. 

“Oh yes,” Crowley agrees, grinning, because it’s true. “Such a bastard, ingenious about it. Saved the world with just enough bastardry. Angel, there’s not many who can stand in front of Heaven and Hell and pick at some pedantic little quibble, you’re such a little shit, annoy the fuck out of me, and there you go doing it to them and it was glorious.”

“I don’t like not having anything to tell me what’s... I don’t trust my own judgement, I’m not good at… any of it,” Aziraphale says. Crowley makes a noise but Aziraphale shushes him. “I’m not. I’m rubbish at the angelic things. I know you say it’s just sides, and I know you’re right, but I don’t trust myself. I don’t even know what’s real. I think sometimes I’m losing my mind. I see and hear and feel things that… and it’s not because I’m an angel, I asked the others once. They said it was probably some malfunction. I don’t know, Crowley.”

“I know. You do fine,” Crowley says. They’re still knitted together, Aziraphale clinging on, they’re both breathing too hard. Crowley’s pretending he’s not crying. 

“I know you think... anyway, all of that is by-the-by, now. I’m not regretting my choice. I may not get eternity, but I’ll take whatever the world can give me. I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages God dreamt of alone. To, uh, paraphrase a friend of yours,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley smiles, remembering long, sun-soaked, alcohol-soaked days drinking with the Inklings. Oh but he’d laughed and laughed when Clive wrote about his demon. He’s never, ever,  _ ever _ going to tell Aziraphale about lying on the floor in front of the fire, rhapsodising about Aziraphale and his golden hair and beauty and grace and the wonder of it. Aslan always feels oddly familiar… And Aragorn’s bloody,  _ bloody _ sword… (so Crowley had made up a whole lot of stuff and John had refused to set metal on fire because ‘some thing just don’t belong’). Those were good days. 

“I love you,” Crowley says. “I don’t care if you’re good.”

“I know that they are wrong,” Aziraphale says. 

He’s trying to get at something, but Crowley doesn’t care much. He sways them, humming agreement, trying to get them to the bed. Aziraphale goes willingly, curling up against Crowley without a fuss, even though he’s already showered and ‘things must have some sort of order’. 

“They’re wrong, I knew it ages ago. You can throw me into any wall you please and hiss all you like, but you’re  _ good _ . You’re good, they should forgive you. Christ told us and we didn’t listen at all,” Aziraphale’s so fervent about it he bursts into tears. “Crowley, you deserve, deserved… they… they…  _ I… _ This I know.”

“Hush,” Crowley says. “It’s fine. Quiet, now.”

“I wanted to fix it.”

Crowley laughs, incredulous. He believes it, though. Aziraphale probably thought that one day he’d walk into Heaven with Crowley, proving everyone wrong. He’s not sure he wants Heaven back, he hadn’t meant to fall but if it’s that easy, and what he’s seen since, and seeing it unravel Aziraphale… well. 

“Stayed with me, didn’t you?” Crowley says. 

“Always.”

“Well then. Fixed. Now please, for the love of Pete, go to sleep so I don’t find you on my roof anymore?”

“I like Peter, he’s nice,” Aziraphale says, muzzy. Crowley snorts. “You liked when he cut that poor man’s ear off.”

Crowley laughs. He  _ had  _ enjoyed that. Aziraphale had a soft spot for him, rescuing him even one time. Crowley clicks his tongue and Aziraphale copies it, relaxing more into Crowley. He’s not asleep, which is annoying. Crowley’s dozy, though, so he gives in and lets himself drift, listening to Aziraphale muttering. 

“Sleep,” he mumbles, when Aziraphale doesn’t shut up after a while. He runs through everything, rubbing over Aziraphale’s shoulders, checking for what he’s missed. There it is. “You don’t need to stand guard. Go to sleep.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale tuts, probably annoyed to be caught out.

“I’ve got you, we’re safe. Go the fuck to sleep,” Crowley growls. 

Aziraphale huffs and protests so Crowley rolls half on top of him, pressing against his chest, all his breath puffing out in a long, surprised sigh. There are a few long moments of confusion while Aziraphale realises that he likes the sensation (Crowley already knows this - he’s used it before. If he presses against Aziraphale, the pressure or something helps. He bought a weighted blanket but Aziraphale ‘doesn’t sleep’. He gave it back to Crowley). Aziraphale lets out a little groan of relief, a little laugh, and then  _ breathes _ . Crowley can feel it, all Aziraphale’s muscles relaxing, everything going limp. His head tips back, there’s a flutter, and  _ all his eyes close.  _ Really, really bloody disconcerting when Aziraphale opens all his eyes, but more-so when Crowley feels him shut them. His human-eyes slide open, wide, blue, galaxies swirling there. Crowley wriggles an arm free to press gently over Aziraphale’s face so they close again, and Aziraphale lets out a snore. Crowley relaxes, and relaxes more when Aziraphale’s arms come up around him, his wings too, cradling Crowley like he’s precious. 

It’s safe. Crowley falls asleep. 


End file.
